


These Hands Were Made For Holding You

by sweetlittledarling (Gabbyaf)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: BUt they kind of share that really, Canon Compliant, Jealous Harry, Love Bites, M/M, Married Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, PR stunts, angst but it's really just h overthinking, basically harry is possessive and sad, beautiful husbands in love with each other, harry hates eleanor, hints at bottom louis, only wine, slight mentions of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23892949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabbyaf/pseuds/sweetlittledarling
Summary: Harry was jealous and possessive, and he knew it was stupid, but Louis looked prettier everyday and it was frightening.Or, H reads too many headlines.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 104





	These Hands Were Made For Holding You

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written anything in years so please be gentle and kind.  
> If my sentences make no sense blame Harry and my strange obsession of trying to get in his head.  
> There is also a tiny switch of perspective because I wanted to appreciate H a little, sue me. 
> 
> Also loosely quoted 18, in the title and the story, very unintentional but very Harry. 
> 
> Enjoy! x

After 10 years Harry should have known better. And really he did know, yet his bloodshot eyes scanned the headlines once again.A familiar name he had known just as long stood out in bold letters. A name he used to hear alongside his own, just some years back, it used to set his cheeks ablaze and make his hands tremble. A name he had whispered like a prayer from a mouth of a filthy sinner begging for forgiveness.

Forgiveness. _Forgiveness._

That is all he had wished for once upon a time. Now the same name was the name of his husband, sitting pretty alongside his own, in a framed wedding certificate above the fireplace. Their home was the epitome of a private heaven, just for the two of them, Louis had once fondly referred to it as a _“scrapbook for rich people, darling”_.

Despite the loving memory Harry’s hands shook as he clicked on another headline, this one new, barely published an hour ago:

_“ **Louis Tomlinson** spotted on a romantic getaway with long term girlfriend Eleanor, can we hear the wedding bells?”_

Harry let out a bitter, humourless laugh as the laptop screen loaded with dozens of photos of his husband and a girl, a woman now. Her face was one Harry wished he had never known. He knew it was irrational to believe these words. Louis was _his_ husband, _obviously_ he was not proposing to another woman. But no one knew this and sometimes it made Harry forget about it too. Louis was his in private but had never been his in public. It messed with Harry’s brain, he had never been able to call Louis his boyfriend, his fiance, his husband to anyone other than his close friends and family members. In all three stages of their relationship Harry wanted to do nothing more than claim the beautiful man as his, shout his name from the rooftop, caption the photo of their hands adorned in matching rings and post it for the whole world to see, something sickly sweet and cliche like _“these hands were made for holding you”_.

Some days, lately more frequently than not, Harry wondered if it was worth it. The whole world knew his name, both of their names, but was this the price of fame? He sold out full stadiums alongside the only man he had ever loved, but he had also sold out their right to love.

At some point during the last five years Harry was hit with a sick realisation, when he had told Louis, he had just chuckled and called him a _“silly boy, H, i'm still here, aren’t I?”_. And Harry knew Louis was right, but he still couldn't stop blaming himself for the way their lives had played out so far. Harry believed he had not only sold his soul to the Devil, he had looked the bastard in the eye, shaken his hand and with a lighthearted laugh signed away his life. He thrusted the only person, the only man, he had ever known into the Devil’s awaiting hands. Harry had stood by and watched as the flames engulfed him, a soft flicker reflecting in his eyes and the sharp tongues lapping at his cheeks. He watches the man he was in love with, get wrapped in chains and locked up, like a precious bird, in a cage. He was precious, he deserved freedom, but Harry knew first hand how selfish people were with the most sacred things.

All those years ago as he followed the first PR stunts with glossy eyes, Harry had thought their love was sacred and precious, that's why they had to keep it safe. He was young and naive - _they both were -_ through his wide, glistening eyes he only saw the good in situations. Now Harry was nearly a decade older, with too many agonising and mentally draining meetings under his belt, and experience of his own stunts through the years, he knew their love wasn't kept a secret to protect it. it was kept secret to end it.

Harry knew there was no amount of cash or number of flashing lights to make up for what they had lost.

_Freedom._

Freedom to love and to be loved.

Freedom to choose who to love.

Most days Harry blamed himself for letting it happen, not being strong enough, but right now, as his eyes burned holes into the face of the woman holding onto his man’s hand, it was so much easier to blame him.

After what felt like endless hours, he heard the familiar rumble of the engine as Louis turned into their driveway.

Harry was _sure_ God was giggling at him from above, and slowing down the time just to see him suffer, _what a sadistic asshole!_

The turn of the lock on their front door woke Harry up from his reverie. A light breeze penetrated the home. Harry had felt it too many nights before, and at some point it felt almost comforting.

_“Haz? I’m home, darling!”_ Louis' voice carried through the hallway, invading the safe space Harry had created by the flickering fireplace. Suddenly Louis occupied every crevice in Harry’s mind, in a way only he could, and Harry knew he was too weak to fight it, too tired.

Harry noted Louis’ voice was heavier than the morning he had left, a slight rasp no one would give a second thought to but Harry knew him, it held back unvoiced thoughts, heavy under his tongue, maybe somewhere in the back of his throat, wrapped up and choking him from the inside. Harry mussed - _would she notice?_

Harry stayed silent. On nights like this, he always did. He could not utter a word, knew his thoughts were too wayward not to say something wrong, something that even scared him.

Regardless Harry allowed his eyes to wander towards the familiar figure in the doorway. The only serious source of light was from the hallway, creating a warm silhouette of his husband. He looked almost surreal, comfortable leaning against the door frame, his legs crossed at the ankles. _His ankles_. Harry fought the urge to wrap his fingers around them, just to feel the softness, like he had done many times before, and run his thumb along the raised tattooed skin.

He did not, instead letting his eyes follow up Louis’ legs, stopping at his thighs, full and muscular. He adorned some ridiculously tight jeans, similar to ones Louis had poked fun at Harry for squeezing into all these years ago, Harry made a metal note to return the favour later that night, or maybe in the morning. Even if Harry had not known Louis’ body like the back of his hand, he would have certainly noticed the prominent muscles of his thighs straining against the expensive denim. He could just about visualise the indentation of his own teeth on the inside of his husband’s right thigh, a mark he had left three nights prior, like a sweet little memoir, a reminder to Louis and, maybe even the woman he was with had she decided to get too close.

Harry would never dared to say his true motives out loud, but in the back of his mind he had a lingering feeling Louis knew, especially when he had looked at Harry with nothing but pure adoration in his eyes and a whisper of _“I’m yours”_ the morning after, pressing into the bruising skin. That morning Harry had wrapped his hands around his hips pulling Louis closer, before pressing a fond kiss alongside one of the many finger shaped bruises littering them, the placement of his hands matching the marks perfectly.

Now in front of him Louis had one of his hips popped out slightly as the other absentmindedly rested against the wooden door frame, they looked so inviting. Harry wondered if the bruises were still visible, had Louis pressed his fingers into them on one of the lonely nights in the dark hotel room, had he thought of Harry as he ran the palms of his hands down his body, moaning Harry’s name into the night as a thin wall separated him and the woman he was supposedly dating.

Harry’s attention was dragged up Louis' torso as his arms mirrored his ankles, crossing over one another and settling against his chest. The material of his white shirt stretched along his defined arms and Harry swore that's all the payback he needed for the grueling hours he spent setting up the gym on the ground floor of their home. Louis’ arms looked safe and inviting, Harry noticed the twitch in his fingers, a sign Louis was getting impatient.

Harry slowly moved the laptop settled by his side to the coffee table nearby, before standing up hastily. His knees felt a little weak from sitting down for countless hours, or maybe from the thoughts of the man in front of him.

As Harry made his way closer his eyes settled on the collar of his husband’s shirt. It was on nights like this Harry felt hatred bubble for the man in front of him. He could smell the smoke on his breath and the lingering scent - the overly expensive perfume - of the woman Louis had hanging off his arm earlier that same day.

Harry’s eyes clouded with anger as they zoned in on the ruby red lipstick mark on that same collar of Louis shirt. _His husband’s shirt._ He noticed every stain and wrinkle. _Of course he did._ He had meticulously ironed the same shirt a few days prior, each fold pressed with careful precision, in the exact places he knew Louis’ shoulders fit and his arms fell. They had started this routine five years prior, when the schedules emptied and Harry wanted a part of him on his husband when they couldn’t be together. The sight made Harry’s jaw clench as he fought the persistent sting behind his tired eyes.

In mare seconds Harry’s hands flew towards that godforsaken shirt, nimble fingers undoing the buttons, the action was familiar, like a dance rehearsed a hundred times. Despite his rush to get rid of the offending article, Harry’s movements were precise and held an unimaginable level of care as he ran his fingers along Louis' skin with each undid button exposing more of the tattooed chest. Each line of ink served as a reminder of _Harry_. _Of them_. The way they completed each other.

Louis let the shirt fall down his shoulders, relaxing into Harry’s hands as his thumb followed the lines of _it is what it is_ just below his collarbones. Louis pushed their lips together in a bruising kiss and they both felt like they had just taken a breath of fresh air. Harry gasped as if his head had been mercilessly held underwater for the last three days. His ears rang and eyes burned as he latched onto the lifeline in front of him. Harry felt Louis pull away slightly before resting their foreheads together as he was crowded against the wall opposing the doorway.

_“Wine?”_ Harry’s own voice sounded foreign to his ears. He had been practically mute the last three days, only screaming _“fuck!”_ once when he stubbed his toe on the first night. He refused to turn on the lights when Louis wasn't around and a discarded box became his enemy from then on.

_“With you? Always.”_ Louis smiled against his lips again as he pushed against Harry’s chest lightly to move them towards the kitchen.

That’s how they found themselves sitting at the kitchen table, a nearly polished off bottle of red between them, lips stained purple and hushed promises of forever whispered into the quiet night. Harry’s thoughts were running a thousand miles an hour and he knew the few glasses of wine blew his filter clear off. It always happened.

_“I saw the pictures.”_ Harry stared intently at the man before him.

_“I know.”_ He just nodded, gentle and understanding, as his hair fell down his forehead, before finishing off his glass, _“talk to me. What's going on in that pretty little head, darling?”_

Harry did not know where to start, he never really did. He knew he could just tell Louis he missed him, they could go back up to their bedroom and celebrate his return. But Harry was never that simple, he refused to be.

_“_ _That woman-”_

_“_ _You know her name, Harry.”_

_“That_ woman _kissed your neck.”_ Harry repeated very matter of factly. _“Didn’t I make it clear to not move below your face?”_

His hands were fisted on top of the table, caging in his half empty wine glass. Despite his greatest efforts not to get worked up he could feel his hands begin to tremble. _She never listens._ It made Harry red with fury.

At the start of it all Harry and Eleanor worked well together, they were able to establish boundaries, the rights and the wrongs. The second time around she became careless and brave, going as far as keeping her hands on Louis in the privacy of his and Harry’s home, _in front of Harry_. He was hardly one for confrontation, usually leaving that to Louis, but she became overwhelming, so much so Harry was forced to pull her aside and in the nicest voice he could muster tell her to _“get her filthy little claws off of my husband, your job is to pretend to be in love with him, not fall in love with him,”_ before hastily adding, _“we made you, don't make me destroy you.”_

Maybe Harry would have regretted his words, maybe he would have felt guilty, but she should have known better than to test his patience, especially not when it concerned his husband. Harry was a sweet and generous man in most areas of his life. He was caring and warm. But when it came to Louis, he was possessive, holding on to his husband’s every breath and word. Harry protected Louis not unlike a wild lioness would protect her cub, suspicious of everyone around him, careful eyes following the movements of the people around them.

_“Haz, look at me,”_ Louis could only sigh, as Harry seemed to be more interested in the ingredient list on the back of the bottle than his lover's eyes. _“You know she likes fucking with you. I’m not spending my days with her, because I find it particularly enjoyable, love. It’s work, you know it’s work. And even if this means more to her, she’s nothing but another filthy job to me.”_

_“Sex work seems fun.”_ Harry quipped back, as he finally looked up a grin spreading on his face. A little reassurance seemed to always pacify him, even if it was just until the next wave came crashing.

_“I’m being serious - also I am_ not _fucking_ her _Harold,”_ Louis seemed almost takenaback when Harry’s words finally registered.

Harry saw this as a window of opportunity before abruptly standing up and walking around the table to Louis' side, who was still mumbling about something or other Harry could care less about at that moment.

_“It’s because_ you _like getting fucked,”_ Harry’s back pressed up against the other man, who’s breath caught at the last word being whispered in his ear like a dirty little secret, _“don’t you?”_

At the question Louis was quick to slip off of his chair, finally locking eyes with the breathtaking man in front him, all long limbs and bronzed skin. For a moment Louis chastised himself for only now noticing the undeniable beauty observing him. Sometimes the intensity of Harry’s gaze felt like a personal spotlight, something Louis should have been used to after nearly a decade of back to back shows and too many pap walks, yet the unwavering stare never failed to unsettle him in the best way possible. Louis felt too naked and too dressed at the same time, despite his lack of shirt, which now laid forgotten somewhere in between the living room and the kitchen. Louis knew he would find it in the bin outside the next time he takes out the trash, but _it’s OK, he never really liked that shirt, or the other 50 Harry had gotten rid of every time he smelled Eleanor on them._

He did not have to wait long before Harry’s hands grabbed onto his hips, pulling Louis closer, nosing at the junction of his neck and shoulder, before pressing loving kisses into his skin.

_“You didn’t answer my question, sweetheart,”_ Harry’s teeth gently sunk into the skin of Louis collarbone, a warning - or maybe a promise - of sorts, waking Louis up from his reverie.

_“Yes Harry,”_ his voice was breathy, already worked up, more from his own thoughts than anything Harry had done, _“please.”_

At the start of their relationship Harry had confessed during one of their many sleepless nights his fear that one day he will stop having this effect on Louis, and secretly Louis was convinced so too.

Now a decade later Harry still made him feel weak at the knees, made his heart beat faster every time he got too close or looked at Louis a certain way. Louis was still so smitten and there was no amount of time that made the feeling ease up. But Harry made it easy, everyday he seemed to be growing more and more into the man Louis wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

Harry’s feelings mirrored Louis’ own. As he followed the man in front of him, now climbing a set of stairs leading to their bedroom. Louis was electric. Harry thought so the first time they had bumped into each other, and had never stopped describing him as such to this day. Harry had whispered _electric_ under his breath on their wedding day, as he watched Louis surrounded by their dearest friends and family as his laugh was caught by Harry’s ears, he was the only noise source, everything else felt deaf to Harry. In that moment Harry thought Louis had never looked more beautiful. Every day since then Louis had gotten more and more breathtaking in front of Harry’s own eyes. Maybe that is why he felt the need to keep everyone away from Louis, if he saw Louis this way he was certain everyone else around them did so too.

Louis was radiant, grabbing the attention of every life form in any single room, hypnotising almost. It was the only way Harry could describe Louis, he was put in a trance by the man in front of him as he let himself fall backwards onto their plush bed. Completely careless. Harry knew he was the only one who has ever and _will ever_ witness Louis like this.

Harry’s meticulous eyes followed the movement of Louis’ legs as they fell open, something akin to an invitation. In that moment Louis was pliant and soft. _Waiting_. Patience really was his virtue. It gave Harry a rush of adrenaline, shocks ran through his body. _Pulsating_. His mind was blinded by the sheer vulnerability and trust his husband was presenting him with. It had been a while since they had the time to uncover each other in such a way. Even after the band split they were never truly alone, always rushed from place to place, having a point to prove, but in that moment, _tonight_ , all Harry wanted was to take his time. He wanted to unravel Louis, watch him fall apart, bend him past his breaking point and put him back together again.

_And again and again and again…_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very tempted to write a little series of stories in this timeline. This Harry and Louis could use some cute domestic time, (and maybe a little coming out) don't you think?
> 
> Thank you for reading. x


End file.
